


To The Desert

by turnyourankle



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they were kids, Mikey and Gerard dressed the same. Like twins, his Ma says, again and again, thumb flicking through the pages of yellowed photo albums. She points at pictures where they're clad in matching maroon jumpsuits, white-white-white  sneakers and their hair is parted in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Desert

**Author's Note:**

> Completely fictional; no harm intended and no profit made.  
> A/N: Please keep in mind that this is a story about incest, so if that squicks you: move along! Many, many thanks to [](http://softlyforgotten.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://softlyforgotten.livejournal.com/)**softlyforgotten** for the beta ♥! Feedback is, as always, very welcome and appreciated.  
>  title from [the poem](http://community.livejournal.com/greatpoets/2365329.html) by benjamin alire sáenz.  
>  _I never let on that I was on a sinking ship_ is from [zero](http://www.songmeanings.net/lyric.php?lid=451) by the smashing pumpkins.

_wherever there is water there is someone drowning._

When they were kids, Mikey and Gerard dressed the same.

Like twins, his Ma says, again and again, thumb flicking through the pages of yellowed photo albums. She points at pictures where they're clad in matching maroon jumpsuits, white-white-white sneakers and their hair is parted in the middle.

She laughs, and says, People really thought you _were_ twins for the longest time, not the kind that look the same, but still. And oh, you acted like it, joined at the hips, you two.

Mikey doesn't remember this, of course, though he wishes he could. He tries, sometimes, eyes shut so hard he has to blink for the world to come back into focus when he opens them again. He tries to imagine what it was like, to look at Gerard and see another version of himself. He nods at what she says, anyway, and saves her words for later.

She does this a lot, after the divorce. Looks through photo albums. She makes coffee, and the couch swallows her thin frame where she sits. She stabs her cigarette in the empty glass ashtray; it's stained from being used for several decades, scratches on the table from where Gerard and Mikey played hockey with it (this is a story she doesn't tell with a smile).

Ma also likes telling the story about the chicken pox; that, Mikey remembers.

Gerard's hands covered in calamine from scratching all his blisters. The perfectly round spots of lotion Ma applied all smudged; and tiny pricks of blood on Gerard's skin and under his nails. Gerard trying to hide his wet eyes from Mikey, and Mikey knowing what their Ma's solution would be.

Mikey saying, Like Ma does, before pressing his closed lips to some of the powdery blisters, and Gerard squirming at the contact.

His mom finding them, both a mess, and slapping a hand over her mouth. She does a bad job of holding back her laughter when she takes Mikey by the hand and says, Oh, baby, now we're going to need more calamite.

She washes them both clean, and reapplying the goo onto Gerard's blisters and toweling Mikey's hair dry. It'll only get worse if you touch them, honey, she says, and kisses Gerard on the head. An itch began growing in hollow of Mikey's neck from watching them, spreading across his face. He thought he could feel the blisters blooming out across his skin, and he wanted to scratch himself out of it.

The blisters only appeared a week later though, and then Gerard was the one blowing cold air over blisters.

The itch was still there.

(This is not part of Ma's story.)

 

 

 

Mikey keeps the stories, folding them in his hands and tries to forge real memories of them. When he can't sleep at night he tries to unfold them in his head, like old movies, browned and torn, film perforated. It's better to think of mirror images, and halves of one whole, than of floors sticky with vodka and itches that won't go away.

 

 

 

Now—

Now Mikey's taller than Gerard, just a little, but his doctor says he hasn't stopped growing yet. He hasn't thought of a way to stop it, so he hunches so it doesn't show, looking up into the irises of Gerard's eyes. They are still almost the same.

Now there are headphones on his head at all times. _I never let on that I was on a sinking ship,_ pounding its way through his ears; a wave washing along the shores of his consciousness. He sits on his hands until they prickle with numbness; letting his fingers become someone else's, as he digs his fingertips into his thigh.

Now—today, the heat is oppressive, caking the air inside the house. Mikey's glued to bed by sweat and world pushing down, and Gerard hatches a plan for their escape.

Gerard refuses to tell Mikey what it is. Just tells him to save up his allowance, and to pick a day in the week where he doesn't have any quizzes.

You can't tell mom, okay? Gerard says, as he roams through the fridge on D day, emptying it of Sunny D and Yoplait boxes. Mikey makes some sandwiches, careful to keep the slices of bread evenly on top of each other so no peanut butter gets smothered over the wrapper.

 

 

 

They take the bus to somewhere no one knows them. Mikey doesn't recognize the street; road paved with symmetrical white houses, the stone facades interlocking and matching the yards. They eat their yogurts on the bus. Gerard forgot to pack spoons; Mikey tries to lick his yogurt out of the plastic containers and Gerard digs a finger into his, triumphantly finishing first.

It's just as warm where they get off, a small path covered with stones and sand, and _oh_ , Mikey's so not dressed right for this; his jeans are chafing his calves and shoes slip over the rocks.

Gerard says, I packed your trunks. He smiles big when he grabs Mikey's hands and pulls him towards the beach.

Mikey slathers sunscreen over Gerard's back, his hands slipping over the oily skin. The fabric of his gut weaves itself tighter, hugging needles; he expects Gerard to jerk away when his fingers slip over the folds of his stomach, but nothing. The longing snaps loose in his chest as he finishes with the sides of Gerard's chest, feeling ribs under flesh (and almost breathing, underneath) and he hands Gerard the bottle.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, lying on his stomach, watching the way Gerard's hair drapes over his face as he reads his comic. The light light floods everything, and he's just going to close his eyes for a little while.

Mikey wakes up from Gerard poking his shoulder, You'll be uneven, he says, and prods Mikey to turn around. Mikey doesn't care, but does anyway, and watches the freckles appearing on the bridge of Gerard's nose. He opens a random page in the MadLibs book he brought along.

Adjective, adjective, noun, adverb, noun, verb, Mikey asks, and Gerard scrunches his nose.

Hot, blinding, Storm, ass-kickingly, brother, flesh-eating, Gerard answers, flipping a page in his comic. Mikey scribbles in Gerard's answers. Gerard sighs, and tries to flip himself over, ungracefully. He manages to get up and tosses his X-Men comic onto Mikey's stomach.

You can have it, Gerard says. Mikey's read this one at least ten times, but he flips it open carefully, not looking at Gerard towering over him. Gerard asks, Ice cream hour, right? What flavor do you want? He squints up the steep slope of the beach, towards the congregation of people waiting in line.

Peruvian chocolate, Mikey says.

Strawberry slushee it is, then, Gerard says, putting on a t-shirt before stalking up to the lopsided shop.

 

 

 

There's still sand stuck to their calves and thighs when they get home. They have a couple of hours until Ma gets home, the house still.

Mikey follows Gerard to the basement, and he goes through his tape collection while Gerard showers. He knows it by heart already--heck, he picked out half of these--but looking over the titles is soothing. He picks out Alien, plopping it into the VHS, and crawling into Gerard's bed.

He doesn't think about how much he wants to lick the seam of Gerard's delicate tan; he pictures it reaching across his hips, and just bellow the dimples in his back. A mirror image to Mikey's own tan, fading and beginning in the same spots; like a matching set. Collect them all.

The water in the shower stops running. Mikey presses play.

'M sure there's hot water left. Or cold water, if ya'd rather have that, Gerard says, dropping down on the bed. A loose jumper swallows him up, and Mikey watches the folds settle as Gerard sits next to him. His hair is still dripping, drops landing on Mikey's neck, shoulder, elbow. Tickling—almost itching.

On the tv Sigourney Weaver's saying, Here's some cornbread, and Mikey shakes his head. He's still sandy; he can feel the tiny prickles from the grain against his spine and the legs of his jeans, but he burrows deeper into Gerard's bed, rubbing the sand into the sheets. Leaving traces; leaving clues.  



End file.
